Bolivia Hop

We left Peru for Bolivia on the Saturday evening, the day after Chris' Birthday. We went by taxi to the Bolivia Hop bus station (a journey and a half in itself), via a previously unvisited part of Cusco. All the roads were full of market stalls, people selling off the street, and piles and piles of rubbish. It was carnage. When we finally arrived, we registered our details with the Dutch lady who had sold us our tickets, and waited to board the bus. It was quite a comfy coach - some young travellers in the seats opposite proclaimed it 'the bus from heaven' as they sat down, but they'd been up in the rainforest. We had chosen it because of its reputation for clean toilets, but it also had quilts, rather than the usual blankets - later to become redundant because the heaters were turned up so high in the night. The bus guide's early instruction, that the toilets were only to be used for number one, not number two, and definitely not number three explained the cleanliness of the facilities - we never did discover what number three involved (guess it may have something to do with alcohol), or what you were meant to do if number two, or number three was imminent. Our man expected us to ask him to stop the bus, which conjured up disturbing visions of Paula Radcliffe crouching behind a cactus. I was tired!

We arrived in Puno, on the Peruvian edge of Lake Titicaca around 5.30 in the morning, and were walked round the corner to a small restaurant for our breakfast - very dry (and cold) scrambled egg, with bread and jam and tea. We were then given the option of a two hour trip on the lake, or to look around the town. I had had a day on this side of the lake three years ago, and knew that we wouldn't see much in a couple of hours, so we opted to stay where we were. We went for a short walk up the road from the bus, to the port, but it was pretty cold, so we sat in the bus for the rest of the time and Skyped the rellies, who were all having a pre-arranged Sunday lunch for the occasion.

We were soon on our way again, heading for the border into Bolivia. We arrived mid-morning, which became midday with the time difference. Passport stamping was a formality. The tricky bit here was that you couldn't drive across the border - all bags had to be unloaded from the coach, and we had to walk with them, uphill, at an altitude of 3865m. Breathe through your nose not your mouth is the advice. Another coach was then waiting for us at the other side of the stone archway at the top of the hill - not a good choice of location for a street park by our driver, who then spent the next ten minutes doing excruciating, crunching hill starts with a now heavily laden bus.

Next stop was to be on the Bolivian side of the lake, at a place called Copacabana. Here we did opt for the trip, which was meant to be a four hour visit to the Isla del Sol - what it actually entailed was a one and a half hour boat journey to the island, 35 minutes to walk up the steep cliff and back, with a similar one and a half hour trip on the way back. We stayed on the boat - well, what we actually did was to get off the boat for 15 minutes to take photos (of the lovely donkeys, and the Inca steps) whilst the skipper bailed out the bilges. The boat had been so packed with travellers that he had had to go carefully to avoid sinking! He then sailed the few 'remainers' round the headland to wait for the brave hill-runners to come down the cliff on the other side. We left singing Barry Manilow (Lola, she was a showgirl) thinking it would be plain sailing as far as La Paz. Never assume anything in South America. The bus, and us (separately as it turned out) had to cross part of the lake by boat. The passengers were in a small cabin cruiser, whilst the coach was floated out on a barge. Having been micro-managed up to this point, we were swiftly abandoned by our guide on the other side as all travellers went in different directions, searching for loos and street food in the chaotic street market in the dark! We did find both, and each other, and the bus, and the food was delicious - proper freshly cooked sausages, with the works (mayonnaise, salad, tomatoes, onions) in rolls. Sod the dodgy tummies, carefully cultivated in Cusco. Once safely back on the bus, it was onwards to La Paz, where we were dropped directly at our hotel door.

La Paz is a very strange place...

On our first morning in the city, we walked down the steep, rain sodden street from our hotel. Everything was 'out there' - the goods were laid out in piles on the pavements, the traditional ladies (or cholitas) perched in the middle, clear tarpaulins covering their wide pleated skirts, and plastic bags covering their tall hats. Public transport was straight out of the USA in the 1950s - I wouldn't have been surprised to see Marty McFly riding one of the brightly coloured, long bonnet, Dodge buses with the silver stars on the front. The wiring was also out there - all tangled up - nearly touching the pavement and the people. We emerged, slightly dazed, into Plaza San Francisco to see groups of locals gathered on the steps of the cathedral, the men wearing black gangster hats, and the women their high brown derbies. According to the walking tour guide, we can blame the British for the ladies' strange fashion choices - a large company which made headgear for local workers on the railways (which the British established in South America) made the Derby hats too small, thinking that because the Bolivians were short, that their heads would also be comparatively tiny. The hats didn't fit, so they 'sold' them to the local women by convincing them that they were an essential accessory, to go with their fancy skirts (also adopted from European fashions of the 1800s) - the Bolivian ladies took to these skirts because they emphasised the width of their hips, and revealed the meatiness of their calfs, both attractive features to the average enlightened Bolivian man who wanted a strong wife who could carry a lot - both children and loads. Across the square from San Francisco church, the steps leading up to the market were submerged in a protest of teenagers (dressed as fruit and veg), demanding and promoting healthy eating. A bizarre contrast next to the elegant, straight backed cholita, with the obligatory crocheted shawl, pinny/housecoat, and jumbo sized shopping bag. A cholita's hat has no visible means of support, seemingly precariously balanced, yet secure, relying solely on good posture, making them some of the healthiest people in the world, with very few heart, lung or kidney problems. If only I'd worn a hat, I might not have such a dodgy back!

Another golden nugget of information from our walking tour guide was the continuing tradition of human sacrifice (to the earthquake gods) - some individuals will search out alcoholic or drug addict street dwellers with no relatives, ply them with shots and bury them in concrete in the foundations of new buildings (allegedly). We have noticed that there is a lot of new building going on throughout South America, so the opportunity is definitely there. Llama foetuses are also used for the same purpose - hung up, or laid out and surrounded by piles of sweets and sparkly things, they are sold on market stalls, to be displayed at meal tables on high days and holidays.

La Paz is lawless...

The San Pedro Prison, named after the square on which it sits, is slap bang in the middle of the city, and right at the centre of much of the criminal activity in town. All of the best drugs (the purest sugar, as the guide referred to them) are manufactured and dealt there - orders for non-inmates are thrown in nappies from the upstairs windows of the building. The institution also contributes to the weird element of La Paz in that families of criminals are forced to live in the jail with their relatives. They can go out and take part in their normal activities during the day, but must return there at night. Prisoners also pay for their own accommodation, meaning that the richest, most successful criminals (usually the major drug barons) can afford the best rooms, living in luxury at the posh end of the prison, whilst the petty criminals languish in squalor at the other. Until quite recently, the wealthiest and most notorious drug baron, who continued to operate his business from the jail, also ran tours of the prison for tourists, 'allowing' them to stay the night for a fee. However, he has now been released, and the remaining criminal element who continue this tradition are not so 'honourable', and refuse to let unsuspecting punters out again, unless they pay them bucket loads of cash of course!

Much of the info given by our guide was so bizarre that we were left scratching our heads, wondering if it could possibly be true, but all of it has since been confirmed on the internet, so it must be.

La Paz is up, and coming...

It's certainly very high - at 3640m, it is the highest capital in the world, if you believe that La Paz is in fact the capital. Many Bolivians argue that Sucre is a contender for the title, as the country's administrative centre. La Paz has overcome its vertical geography with a new state of the art transport system, its cable car, which presently has three colour coded lines, with two or three more in development. The yellow line, which we were advised to ride, gives perfect panoramic views over the city, including the insides of people's sitting rooms as it sails inches away from their front windows, and the contents of their washing lines as it floats above their backyards. All of this while surrounded by crag-tooth mountains.

As we were leaving La Paz in the taxi to the airport (oh the bliss - no bus journey), we drove through the famous 'Witches Market' at its busiest time, packed with cholitas in their colourful finery. There were all manner of hats and shiny, pleated, petticoated skirts - Bolivian women's skirts have sparkly bits and pleats that go both vertically and horizontally, creating a checquered effect. Stallholders (if a tarpaulin on the street can be called a stall), perched atop mountains of potatoes, or surrounded by huge melons and exotic fruits, nursing their babies, or chatting with their fellow cholitas. The ladies don't like having their pictures taken - I had asked, so this would have been the perfect opportunity to take a cheeky snap or two through the car window without them being able to object - the best photo ops always arrive when your camera is packed in its case for the flight.Read more